


The Stopover

by BristlingBassoon



Category: Political RPF, Political RPF - 20th-21st c., Political RPF - US 21st c., Real Person Fiction
Genre: American Politics, Canada, Canadian Politics, Diplomacy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-03-14
Packaged: 2018-05-26 16:30:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6247354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BristlingBassoon/pseuds/BristlingBassoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“He wanted to close that airport, you know,” Justin continues. “And they went and named it after him. It’s almost like they were trying to be funny.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Stopover

It’s a quiet moment - well, as quiet as it will ever be. They’re sitting together in the oval office, drinking coffee out of tiny cups; a parting gift from the Japanese ambassador.

“Tell me,” says Barack, trying hard to keep his voice level, looking down at Justin Trudeau’s shoes, which are mirror-bright except for a small, vulnerable scuff.

“Yes?” says Justin, glancing up oh so casually. He takes another sip of the coffee, which isn’t to his liking. It’s burnt. He decides not to mention it.

“Was it strange growing up with so much expectation?”

“How do you mean?” Justin replies, his brow furrowed in just the way Barack likes. He doesn’t know why he likes it, but he does. It’s as if he’s thinking very carefully in order to be sure about what he’s saying, in order to be as kind as possible when he’s saying it.

“Oh,” Justin eventually says. Barack waits for more. “It was weird.”

Weird was an understatement. Justin remembers being told by some aide that his mother will be away for a little while, her dancing and enthusiasm apparently a sign of something ill. Somehow all that effort wasn’t considered quite right. He remembers reading newspapers, saying that people only liked his father - women only liked his father - because they thought he was handsome. He remembers being pushed, a mouthful of dirt. He remembers gates, high white walls, posing for photographs, swept up in his mother’s arms, holding hands, smiling. Posing again and again.

“I remember when they named the airport after him,” Justin says slowly as he contemplates the insignia on the rug. “I said we were honoured, but I couldn’t help but think how weird it was every time I’d fly in there. An airport named after your Dad.”

“Huh,” Barack replies, not knowing where to look.

“He wanted to close that airport, you know,” Justin continues. “And they went and named it after him. It’s almost like they were trying to be funny.”

They lapse into silence - but somehow it feels right. Companionable. And Barack finds himself putting his coffee down. He reaches out and puts his hand on top of Justin’s. Nothing happens at first, and it’s agonising. But then Justin turns to look at Barack, and his eyes are strangely tender. Barack feels warm fingers curl into his.

“I know you’re new,” says Barack by way of explanation, “but this job can be really hard.”

“I know.”

“I just want to make sure you - well, you’ve always got someone who knows who you’re going through, you know? All the handshakes. All the posing,” he grins briefly. Justin watches as the smile lights his face. “And no matter what decision you make, it never seems to be the right one.”

“I don’t know if anyone ever told you this,” replies Justin sincerely, “but you did an excellent job. I can’t even imagine.”

They’re quiet for a moment, and then Justin gets up, still holding onto Barack’s hand. Barack is compelled to stand along with him.

“Well, I really must be going,” says Justin, and there’s an apology in the words even though he doesn’t need one. Typical Canadian, thinks Barack, and loves him even more for it. “When you get some time off, give me a ring.” He smiles, and that smile is so, so warm and genuine that Barack can hardly bear it. He feels his heart crack.

“Is it Ok if -“ but Barack is nodding agreement as Justin pulls him toward himself and kisses him on both cheeks. First the left, then the right, then the left again. “It’s cultural,” he says, still smiling.

“Cultural,” grins Barack, flushing - and before Justin can let go of him, he leans forward in response and kisses the prime minister of Canada, leader of the United States’ ally to the north, full on the mouth. Justin’s eyes widen a little, his eyelashes brushing Barack’s cheek, but he kisses back. When they part, it’s reluctantly - but every man needs to catch his breath eventually.

“Good luck with the rest of your term, Mr President,” Justin says formally, as he carefully arranges his jacket over his arm and walks out of the oval office. “It’s been a pleasure.” Barack wonders if he imagined it. But then, as the door swings open, swings closed - Justin looks back, and there it is. That smile.

Barack feels as if he’s the only other man in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> AND THEY WERE BUT TWO SHIPS PASSING IN THE NIGHT 
> 
> or something.


End file.
